Tumblr Prompts: Chelsie
by beckyhughes
Summary: Not sure where these will go, probably will keep them mostly IC — except maybe on the smut front, idk, some of these prompts are just writing themselves. Rated M to be safe.
1. Beginning

**1\. Beginning**

* * *

_"Of course I'll marry you, you old booby — I thought you'd never ask." _

Charles Carson – ever the epitome of stoicism — could not prevent his face from crumpling into a sentimental heap as she said the words. _Thought he'd never ask? _That meant she'd _wanted _him to. All this time he'd been so worried that he'd insult her by asking when she'd been waiting; he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She gently placed a hand on his arm, giving it a tiny, reassuring squeeze. She smiled up at him, raising her eyebrows slightly.

"All this cottage talk," she said, swallowing back a knowing smile "It wasn't _really _a "business venture" was it?"

He laughed, his eyes damp with tears. "I felt I needed to test the waters a bit before revealing my true intentions."

"You didn't think I'd say yes?" she said, giving his arm another squeeze.

"I hoped that you would — I thought, perhaps, over the years you'd come to feel the same way."

"It has been years, hasn't it?" she said, looking down at where her hand grasped his shirtsleeve, "You can't have known how many nights, sitting in your pantry, I've wanted to reach over and do just this."

He placed his palm atop hers, feeling the warmth of her tiny hand beneath his.

"I think, perhaps, I can."

For a moment, they only stood there, alone in his pantry. Upstairs, Lady Mary had stopped singing and applause rang out in the ballroom. Remembering suddenly where they were — and that sooner or later they'd have to rejoin the rest of the world — she looked up at him with an apologetic smile.

"They'll wonder where we've run off to." he said quietly, "I suppose we'd better rejoin them."

"Wait—" she said quietly, taking a step closer. They couldn't have been any closer in that moment; he could smell just a hint of rose water. She must have put on a dab behind her ear before the evening had started. He held his breath as she gently tugged her hand out from under his, letting it rest gently against his chest. He hoped that she couldn't feel how fast his heart was beating beneath his livery. "You already put my name on the deed?"

He swallowed hard, "Yes, well — as I said, I didn't see the point in changing the plan we'd made —"

"What if I hadn't accepted your proposal?"

"I — well, I —" he looked down at his hands, then raised his eyebrows, a small smirk breaking onto his lips, "I'd have hired you as my housekeeper."

At this, she laughed, reaching up to gently touch his cheek. When she felt that it was damp with tears, her lips parted just slightly as she realized just how much courage he'd worked up to ask her. How truly afraid he'd been that she'd say no. She rose up on her toes, mindful of the glasses they still held in each hand _(how funny, she thought, that she'd been holding two glasses and he'd asked for her hand in marriage! She hadn't a hand to give him until she'd passed a glass to him— and in that moment, she'd accepted wholeheartedly, though he'd yet to realize it). _Just before her lips touched chastely to his, she let her eyes flutter closed. The kiss was brief, their lips touching only a moment — but the touch held so much promise. She pulled away, her face hot, cheeks pink and eyes glistening. His face, too, was rosily colored. He smiled goofily, then cleared his throat.

"Here," he said, raising his glass. She hesitated, and he nodded for her to raise her glass in kind.

"What are we toasting?" she said, echoing his earlier inquiry.

He laughed, reaching his hand over to gently caress her shoulder.

"That I can still be in receipt of a Christmas kiss — _at my age_."


	2. Accusation

**2\. Accusation**

"_I was thinking about Lady Sybil when she was this age." _

"_All we can do for her now is cherish her bairn. And it's lovely to seeing you doing just that." _

"_Now, there's no need to get sentimental, Mrs. Hughes." _

Her immediate response was to blanch at his comment. She watched silently as he turned away from her, muttering that he'd best get little Sybbie back to bed. She licked her lips and called after him — she wouldn't let him walk away.

"Mr. Carson, I've been accused of many things — sentimentality never one of them."

He paused and turned to face her. She held his gaze a moment, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Surely he'd have a response to _that. _

Taking a tentative step toward her, he shrugged slightly, bouncing Sybbie in his arms. "I didn't mean to sound accusatory."

She pursed her lips, letting her hands cross and and come together neatly in front of her. "I know I haven't been at Downton so long as you. And perhaps I don't recall fondly Lady Sybil when she was small." she felt her throat begin to close up — oh, she wouldn't cry, not here, not in front of him. She took a deep breath, "But I cared for Lady Sybil very much, Mr. Carson. You are not the only member of the staff who has their favorites."

Sybbie cooed and held a tiny hand out to Mrs. Hughes. She smiled at her, but quickly flicked her gaze back to Carson, who had lowered his head almost shamefully.

"I never meant to presume otherwise." he said stiffly, though she could see in his gaze that he was a bit hurt. She hadn't meant to be cross with him, but she also didn't think it fair of him to deprive her of feeling the weight of Lady Sybil's death. He had the weight of a child in his arms as he spoke, so she knew the absence could not feel quite so stark to him.

She nodded slightly and clasped her hands tighter together. "Well. I suppose you ought to get her back upstairs, then. If Nanny goes looking for her and sees she's not there, we'll have more than sentimentality to worry about."

She briskly turned on her heels, wanting in that moment to be as far away from him as possible. She wasn't angry, particularly, but she also felt that there was something unresolved looming between them and it made her chest burn. Before she'd reached the entryway to the library, she heard his voice rise up.

"Mrs. Hughes—"

She stopped. Turned slowly back to him, giving him a curt smile.

"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

He looked down at Sybbie a moment. She had grown sleepy and was resting her head against his broad chest. He looked up across the room, his eyes kind.

"Would you, perhaps, like to hold her? You're right that she should be returned to the nursery but — perhaps —" he lowered his eyes, taking a few steps toward her, "Perhaps you would like to carry her upstairs?"

Mrs. Hughes cocked her head to one side, her face softening. Maybe Mr. Carson understood a lot more than she had given him credit for. She could feel her eyes dampening, and her furtive blinking only clouded her vision as she moved soundlessly across the library toward him. She only nodded once she'd reached him, and he passed Sybbie's sweet weight to her. Immediately, the child laid her head against Mrs. Hughes' bosom.

For a moment, there was only quiet between them. As Sybbie's eyes grew heavy, and her tiny snores rose up as the lone sound in the room, Mrs. Hughes laid her hand gently across the child's back, rocking her gently.

"Lady Sybil was very blessed," Carson began, "As is Miss. Sybbie." Mrs. Hughes looked up at him, her eyes asking. Carson softly laid his hand atop Sybbie's head, his thumb caressing the child's brow. "Any child who has the good fortune of being cherished by you, Mrs. Hughes, is very blessed."

"Thank you for that, Mr. Carson." she whispered. He lifted his hand from Sybbie's head and nodded. The child reached a hand up in sleep, pressing it against Mrs. Hughes' collarbone. She chuckled softly in response, picking up the child's tiny hand and pressing it to her lips. She raised her eyes to Carson, "Shall we go up?"


	3. Restless

"**I thought maybe I'd find you down here." **

**Mrs. Hughes looked up from the kettle when she heard Mrs. Patmore's soft voice. It was very late — after midnight at least. She hadn't been able to fall asleep; not that she'd expected she would. She supposed it didn't matter how old a woman was: the night before her wedding was destined to be a sleepless one. **

"**What are **_**you **_**doing up at this hour?" she said, bringing the kettle to where she had set out a teacup and saucer on the counter. Mrs. Patmore crossed the kitchen to fetch herself a cup from the cupboard, stifling a yawn as she did. **

"**Same as you, I imagine." she said, tossing Mrs. Hughes a look. "Might not be my weddin' but it's the closest I'll ever get." **

"**What about Mr. Mason?" Mrs. Hughes teased, blinking as the kettle's steam rose up and wetted her face. **

"**Ack, don't start." Mrs. Patmore said, setting the teacup and saucer down with a clank. Mrs. Hughes sighed and turned to pour the kettle for her. **

"**Don't give up just yet," she whispered, "Lord knows I never thought I'd get a proposal at my age." **

"**Well, weren't for lack o' interest that you went this long!" Mrs. Patmore huffed. **

**Mrs. Hughes felt heat rise in her face – and not from the steam of the tea, either. **

"**I still can't quite believe it," she said quietly. "I really did think he'd never ask me." **

**Bringing her tea cup to her lips and blowing gently, Mrs. Patmore gave her a knowing smile. "He may well not have if he hadn't found 'imself a good ruse." **

"**I suppose I've to thank you for that," Mrs. Hughes laughed, "You put the bug in his ear about the cottage business." **

**Waggling her eyebrows, Mrs. Patmore smiled as she sipped her tea. There was a moment of quiet between them as the rest of the house slept. Then, they heard lumbering footfalls coming down the hall stairs. Mrs. Hughes knew them straight away. **

"**Oh, what's he doing up?" she said, setting her teacup down with a clatter, "He isn't supposed to see me before the ceremony, is he?" **

**Setting her cup down hurriedly, Mrs. Patmore pulled her dressing gown more tightly around herself and fervently pushed Mrs. Hughes across the length of the kitchen and threw open the door to one of the smaller pantries. **

"**Go on," she said in a hush, "He's probably just come down for a biscuit — I'll fetch you when he's gone back upstairs." **

**Mrs. Hughes looked at her with slack jawed disbelief, but acquiesced, tucking herself into the pantry and letting Mrs. Patmore close it behind her. **

"**Oh — Mrs. Patmore, I didn't expect to see anyone else awake." **

**She turned toward him, hoping her expression hadn't given the game away.**

"**Thought I'd have a cuppa," she said, crossing back to the counter. She noticed immediately that there were two cups and saucers set out. "A-a-and, well, I thought there was a chance you or — perhaps, Mrs. Hughes—might be up, so I made two." **

**He looked down at the steaming cups and smiled, "We can always count on you to be one step ahead." **

"**I tried me best but I couldn't fall asleep — just so happy for the two of you." Mrs. Patmore grinned, reaching nervously for her tea. She nudged Elsie's abandoned cup closer to him. **

"**I'm a bit nervous, I must admit." he said, lifting the cup delicately, "Happy, of course, but nervous." **

"**About what, exactly?" Mrs. Patmore asked, wondering how much of this conversation Mrs. Hughes was able to overhear.**

"**I hope you'll forgive me Mrs. Patmore, but, it is quite late and — well, I think perhaps you are the closest confidant Mrs. Hughes has at Downton." **

"**O'er than you." she laughed, sipping her tea. He smiled.**

"**Yes, well —" he paused, a nervous grimace etched onto his face, darkened by the dim light of the kitchen at night. "I do, very much, want to be her confidant. I want to be a good husband to her. More than anything, I do." he sighed wearily, "I just worry that I'm too old. That love is —" he chuckled lightly, perhaps a tad bitterly, "Perhaps love is for the young. What if — if I'm too stuck in my ways and I can't adjust?" **

**Mrs. Patmore's eyes softened. If it hadn't been the middle of the night — on the eve of his wedding, no less — she'd never have dared reach a hand over to his, but she felt her lapse in propriety was justified. She pat his hand reassuringly **

"**Mr. Carson, every member of this staff — and I'd wager half o' them upstairs — have watched you and Mrs. Hughes for years. You've been the figureheads of the servant hall for the last decade, at least — and all that changes tomorrow is you're gonna get a pretty piece of paper to make it official." she took her hand back and gave him a resolute nod of her head, "I doubt much else will have to change." **

**Carson smiled, seeming to relax a bit. "I suppose." he said, taking a sip of tea. As he tasted it, he furrowed his brow immediately, giving Mrs. Patmore a look. "This — this tea, it's been made up already." **

"**Well — I," Mrs. Patmore stuttered, "Maybe I gave you my cuppa instead." she looked down at hers and saw, thankfully, it was still black. She handed it to him quickly, "There you are, then." **

"**That tea has milk and no sugar," he said his eyes narrowing, "Now, Mrs. Patmore, I've had breakfast in your kitchen for many, many years and I have never in my life known you to have your tea without sugar." **

"**I—I must have forgot. It is late, innit? You ought to go back up to bed, you've a big day tomorrow, Mr. Carson! Go on and take your tea right up with you, I won't say nothing of it." **

"**But—Mrs. Patmore—" he said, stumbling as she scurried over to shoo him out.**

"**What is it, Mr. Carson?" she said exasperatedly. **

**He shrugged, "I would like a biscuit." **

**She rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up. "Fine, then — but get on with it, then up to bed." she shook her head, "Am I a cook in this house or a governess? Good Lord!" **

**He chuckled as he crossed the kitchen, headed for the pantry. **

_**The pantry! **_**Mrs. Patmore thought,** _**The biscuits are in there!**_

**And before she could say the words she thought, Carson saw what else, aside from biscuits, was tucked away in it.**

**Mrs. Hughes looked up at him, wide-eyed, her cheeks bright red. The moment he pulled the door open, he stepped back, gasping. **

"**Mrs. Hughes! What on earth are you doing?!" he whipped his head around to Mrs. Patmore, "What are you two up to?" **

**When he whirred his body back to face the pantry, Mrs. Hughes took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. **

**He looked down and saw that she had an offering.**

"**Would you," she said, stifling a laugh "— care for a** _**biscuit,**_ **Mr. Carson?" **


	4. Snowflake

4\. Snowflake

**Yorkshire, December 1902**

Mrs. Hughes thought she'd imagined the light rapping on the door to her sitting room. She didn't respond immediately, instead, she listened harder — trying to figure out if she had merely misheard a knock on someone else's door, or if perhaps someone was looking for her.

She had only recently been made Housekeeper at Downton and still wasn't accustomed to spending time in this room in the evenings. While she was thankful for the privacy and the quiet, at times she was struck by a peculiar feeling of loneliness. Silly to think one could ever feel lonely in a house where there was always someone puttering around. Always someone asking. Always something.

A small knock came again. She turned toward the door and cleared her throat.

"Come in?" she said, her voice lilting. She turned back to her desk and glanced at the small clock — it was 11 o'clock the maids should have all gone up by now.

The door opened slowly and a tiny, dark-haired girl, clad in a long nightgown, stepped into the room. Mrs. Hughes felt her breath catch.

"Lady Sybil!" she said, standing "Whatever are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

The child looked around curiously. She had very likely never been downstairs before, at least not that anyone knew about. At six and three quarters (as she liked to pointedly say) Sybil Crawley was already proving to be a bit of a rebel. Unlike her older sisters, who were far more concerned with rules and order, Sybil had a different nature entirely. In fact, when Mrs. Hughes had first arrived at Downton, Sybil was the first Crawley that she met.

She had been coming up the drive on her first day — her hatbox in one hand and a carpet bag in the other — when she was startled by a shrill voice from behind her. She turned, her hat nearly flying off her head, and saw a little girl running across the lawn toward her. Stopping short just as she reached the dirt path, the girl smiled, breathing heavily.

"I'm Sybil Crawley, who are you?" the child said. Before Mrs. Hughes could answer, the voice of another child rose up from somewhere across the yard. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun, and could just make out a tall, dark haired girl walking very slowly—almost regally—toward them.

"That's my sister Mary." Sybil said, heaving a sigh, "She spoils all the fun."

Mrs. Hughes chuckled. The child was darling — perhaps one of the prettiest children she'd ever seen. Her dark ringlets fell down her back, bouncing as the child did. Mrs. Hughes opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. She did not know nearly enough about how things were run at her new employer's —_Downton Abbey_— to know if she should engage with their children.

The older child, Mary, had made her way across the lawn and looked at Mrs. Hughes with an air of disgust. She couldn't have been more than ten years old, but she was already perfectly aware of her position in the world and seemed very comfortable within in.

"You'll need to use the servant's entrance, round the back." Mary said, gesturing beyond them toward the estate. "The butler, Mr. Carson, will see to you." Turning on her heels, and grabbing Sybil roughly by the arm, she strode back across the lawn without another word.

Now, two years later in her sitting room, it was Sybil's turn to be the quiet one.

"If your parents knew that you were down here they would not be pleased," Mrs. Hughes said firmly, folding her hands in front of her, pulling her lips into a tight line. Sybil shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"If you don't want to walk all the way back up to the nursery alone I will walk you up." Mrs. Hughes offered, moving toward the door. Sybil looked up, her eyes wide.

"I've had a nightmare," Sybil said quietly.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head lightly, "Where's Nanny?"

Sybil shrugged, "She told me to go back to sleep."

"And you disobeyed her?"

"I couldn't fall back asleep, I was too frightened."

Mrs. Hughes sighed, "Aye. But you mustered up the courage to walk all the way down here in the dark?"

"I ran, mostly."

Mrs. Hughes chuckled, her face softening. "You may come in for a moment. Then I'll walk you back upstairs." She gave her a look, "_Walk, _mind you."

Sybil smiled, stepping toward her. She looked around for a place to sit and chose a chair next to the heart. Climbing up, her legs dangling over the edge, she watched as Mrs. Hughes returned to her desk.

"What are you making?" Sybil asked, leaning over the arm of the chair to inspect Mrs. Hughes desk.

"Oh, I'm not making anything. Working on my ledgers." she looked up at the child who was watching her curiously, "It's a lot of arithmetic. Adding and subtracting." she sighed. "Mostly subtracting. . ."

"No, I meant that!" Sybil said, pointing to a stack of cut up parchment.

Mrs. Hughes blushed, "Oh — well, it's almost Christmas." she said, waving a hand dismissively. Sybil looked at her expectantly. Hesitating, Mrs. Hughes gently untangled the web of paper and lifted up a strand of carefully cut-out paper snowflakes.

"They're beautiful!" Sybil said, reaching out to touch them. "Can you show me how to make them?"

Mrs. Hughes sighed, handing the snowflakes to Sybil for closer inspection. "I'll make a promise to you. If you go back up to the nursery and go to bed, I will show you how to make them after your lessons tomorrow."

Holding the snowflakes up to the light, Sybil smiled. "You promise? You really promise you will?"

"I don't tell lies, Lady Sybil." Mrs. Hughes said, standing. Sybil hesitantly handed the decoration back to her — but Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "You may keep them."

Smiling, Sybil hopped down from the chair and flung herself against Mrs. Hughes' skirts, wrapping her arms around her waist. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

"You're welcome, lass." Mrs. Hughes said, petting the girl's head affectionately.

There was a knock at her door — and this time she definitely heard it. She looked down at Sybil nervously.

"Come in." She said quietly, taking a step away from Sybil.

Mr. Carson appeared in the doorway and she felt her heart sink. If ever there was a time to be given a talking to by the butler, it was now. As soon as he noticed the presence of Lady Sybil in the room, his face stiffened.

"What is the meaning of this —" he said, stopping short, suddenly aware that he had nearly forgotten she was now _Mrs. Hughes _to him. He was now on equal footing with her.

"Lady Sybil could not sleep, Mr. Carson. She knocked on my door and I told her she could come in. Just as I've done to you." she gave him a look, "Though something tells me you are not here because you've had a nightmare."

He cleared his throat, caught off guard by the remark. "Mrs. Hughes, I think you should escort Lady Sybil back up to the nursery at once."

"We were on our way," she said, taking a step toward him, "However, it appears that there is a butler in our path." she looked down at Sybil, "Do you think we should ask Mr. Carson to join us as we venture back up to the nursery?" she flicked her gaze back up to him, "I'm sure he's not afraid of the dark."

Carson blinked, his gaze moving back and forth from the housekeeper to the young lady hiding in her skirts. After a moment, he gave them a tiny nod — and as they walked out into the hallway together, Mrs. Hughes wondered if the butler was concealing a small smile of his own, grateful for the darkness.


	5. Haze

He'd had a fever for two days now. She hadn't left his bedside but to put on a kettle for tea, or close the curtains when the winter sun ricocheting across the snowy yard worsened his headache. It was only a flu — nothing so serious as the one that had run rampant through Downton several years ago — still, he felt dreadful. An unexpected perk of married life, however, was that he had someone to bring him aspirin and keep him company through it all.

She hovered nervously above him, wringing a washcloth in a basin she'd set next to his bed. Bunching it up into her hand, she pressed it gently to his forehead. Though his vision was foggy from the headache, and the fever, and he felt himself distanced by the heaviness that hangs over one when they are so ill, he could see her eyes perfectly. Taking the cloth from his head, she pressed the backs of her fingers gently against his cheek.

"I'll worry less when we can get this fever down," she said quietly. She straightened her back, setting the washcloth down next to the basin and turning back to him. As he squinted up at her, the sunlight beaming in through their bedroom window gave her the sudden appearance of a golden aura.

An angel she was, he thought, as he drifted back to sleep.


	6. Flame

He startled at the sound of someone striking a match. As his eyes flickered open, the bedroom was still shrouded in darkness, save for the tiny flame puncturing the darkness from her side of the nightstand. He'd dozed off somewhere in the interim between when they'd had their nightcap and she'd come to bed. It always took her longer to get ready so his dozing was a usual occurrence. What was not, however, was candlelight.

"We do have electricity." he said groggily, his head still heavy against his pillow. In the soft light of the candle's flame, he saw her smile just slightly. Just enough for him to know she'd something up her sleeve.

"I know that," she said, giving her wrist a few quick twists to put out the match. her bed creaked as she sat down, part of her face in shadow.

"Why the candle, then?" he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"I thought it would be romantic." she said quietly, reaching down to unpin her stockings from her garter. He watched as she nimbly rolled them down over the tops of her thighs, over her knee — and down the strong line of her calves.

"You've still got your stockings on?" he asked, propping himself up on his elbows and squinting into the dim light.

"Silly me . . ." she said, flashing him a wicked look, "So I did. . ." she let the nylon drop from her fingers and it floated down to the floor, disappearing into the darkness.

He raised his eyebrows in delight, "This scene could use a bit more light."

She blinked, giving him a coy smile. "No can do, Mr. Carson" she purred, leaning into the space between their beds. He could see her bosom fall forward, filling the front of her nightgown teasingly, "_You'll have to come closer._"


	7. Formal

A/N: I had this one on tumblr yesterday but I couldn't get into — oops! Check out tumblr for the manip that goes with it! :)

* * *

_To Mr. and Mrs. Charles Carson._

That's how the envelope was addressed. It was thick, lovely cream cardstock and the return address was someone from London whose name she didn't recognize. Though the real thrill to her, as she ran the letter opener crisply through the envelope's neat crease, was the idea that _she _was Mrs. Charles Carson.

Inside the envelope, which was rather large, nearly portrait sized, there were a few smaller envelopes. One of them was addressed to Mr. Charles Carson, and though she thought perhaps she shouldn't peak, the larger envelope _had _been addressed to them both. She unfolded the stationary, not recognizing, but no less admiring, the pristine script.

_Dear Mr. Carson,_

_It was an absolute pleasure to photograph your wedding ceremony. Enclosed please find a few of the exposures and do let me know which ones you would like me to have framed for you. I can send them to Ripon and you will be able to pick them up in a few weeks. As per our previous arrangement, the cost will be charged to the Earl of Grantham's account with us. I believe we are expecting them for portraits during the coming season, and we will close the account then per His Lordship's initial arrangement with us._

_Again, it was a pleasure — your bride was most beautiful. _

The letter was signed _Alice Hughes*. _

Elsie wasn't sure at first if she dared look at the photographs Alice Hughes had included with her letter. It had been at Charles' urging that she'd even agreed to be photographed in her wedding dress. Not only had she felt quite silly posing for such a portrait — she was, after all, not a lady— but to be photographed by one of the most famous portrait photographers in all of England seemed entirely too much. Charles had said, however, that His Lordship had insisted. He'd gone so far as to tease Mr. Carson, "Perhaps Alice is a long lost relative of our Mrs. Hughes — you would be remiss to not take us up on the offer to meet her and have your portraits done." It had been one of several generous wedding presents from the Crawleys. Charles had beamed with pride at the notion that he would have such a portrait of Elsie — even nicer than the one he'd had of his first lass, Alice.

She heard his footfalls in the hall, and before she could get the letter properly stuffed back into its envelope, he appeared behind her at the kitchen table.

"What've you got there?" he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. She knew she couldn't escape him — and he'd be so excited, could she really justify ruining his happiness?

"It looks as though you've a letter from Alice Hughes."

"The portraits!" he said, coming round her to sit down at the table. He bypassed Alice's letter entirely and instead went straight for the envelope containing the proofs. She hadn't even time to open her mouth to form some kind of justification for _however she looked, _before his eyes had lit up and his jaw gone perfectly slack.

"I hope they turned out alright, Charles." Elsie said quietly, "I'm hardly photogenic and forced formality never makes it any easier —"

Without looking up from the photograph, he reached over and placed his hand gently on hers atop the table to silence her. Very slowly, he turned the picture he held toward her. She watched his eyes and in them saw pure joy. He almost looked as though he might begin to cry from elation.

"They're marvelous," he said quietly, "Absolutely marvelous."

She reached out and took the photograph from his hands, lifting it closer to her face. If for a moment, looking at it, she had forgotten her age then the squinting required of her to make out the detail served a gentle reminder.

"You're pleased, then?" she asked quietly, smiling inspite of herself. She didn't look horrific, of that she was certain.

"I'm overjoyed," he said, lifting another from the envelope, "When we go up to the big house this afternoon we will have to show them to His Lordship. I'm sure he's always impressed with Alice's work but these are stunning."

"I look like a proper lady, don't I?" she giggled, biting the nail of her thumb. How strange it was! Was she really that woman in the photo? Maybe she had been for a moment in time …

"Perfectly regal." he said, his eyes glued to the next photograph in the lot.

Elsie sighed, sliding the portrait back to him. "We must make sure Mrs. Patmore doesn't see them." she said, rising from the table to put a kettle on.

"Why ever not?" Charles said, a bit hurt.

Shaking her head lightly, she looked over her shoulder at him, "If she saw me posing like that she'd start _insisting_ I eat upstairs."


	8. Companion

Although they wrote one another seasonally, Elsie had only really met and talked to Becky's caretaker a handful of times. She knew a great deal about the woman, even if they had mostly corresponded via letter and telegram in the years that had passed since the woman was hired.

As with most things in life, Elsie's standards for hiring a caretaker for her sister were astronomically high. While many would have assumed the task challenging because of _Becky_, in truth, the search for a caretaker had been complicated not by the girl's needs, but by Elsie's.

The caretaker had to be female, preferably a bit older. She must be a nurse with absolutely no tarnishes on her record — not even for something as innocuous as occasional truancy. She must be a kind soul but have a firm routine, one which it would be second nature for her to uphold.

Of course, considering how little Elsie could afford to pay for the service, she found that the caretakers she so desperately sought for Becky were more often than not far out of reach. Until, that is, she met Ethlyn Walters*.

Miss Walters was young — a bit younger, in fact, than Elsie would have preferred. She was tall, rather buxom and had long raven-black hair which she wore in a very tidy upsweep. She had been educated at the best schools, came from a respectable family in Ipswich and — most importantly — immediately took to Becky. Likewise, Elsie's sister seemed at once at ease around the kindly nurse and considering that, the decision to make the hire had been a simple one.

On the train to Lancashire, Elsie had regaled all of this to Charles. He'd listened intently, marveling at the amount of intimacy that now existed between them — within a year he went from not knowing of Becky Hughes' existence at all to knowing as much about her as her own family did. Though, this was the first time he was hearing quite so much about the woman who, for all intents and purposes, had stood in for Elsie in the years since her mother's passing.

"They go to the beach nearly every day when the weather's nice." Elsie said, looking out the window at the countryside passing them by. The trip from Yorkshire was a full morning, and they'd left early — the conversation had begun to wear on her a bit.

"It sounds to me like Miss Walters has become more a companion for Becky than a nursemaid." Charles said, resting his hand on her thigh. The freedom with which they could touch one another now still managed to make her heart skip."She is _Miss _isn't she? Not married?"

Elsie laughed, "No — I don't think she's even had a beau. She's very committed to her work."

Charles nodded, "A girl after your own heart."

"Well, I can't say I haven't had a beau now, can I?" she said, placing her hand atop his upon her leg. She sighed, closing her eyes.

"I think I'm as excited to meet Miss Walters as I am your sister." Charles said, stifling a yawn, "But first I think perhaps I could use a nap."

Eyes still closed, she smiled, " Rest your head on my shoulder and we'll doze off together."

"How companionable of you." he said, letting his eyes flutter closed.

* * *

_A/N: I think Miss Walters is going to end up in another fic at some point. I was actually researching something unrelated to fic and I somehow came up with this character — this woman — and so, you know, you might see her again! _


	9. Move

Carson took a step back to admire his work properly. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he gave the mantlepiece one final swipe with his cloth — not a spot of dust. He sighed, a small smile stretching across his face. For the first time in — well, perhaps the first time ever in his life — he was in charge of a home of his very own.

Well, _of their very own. _

"Mr. Carson?"

He turned. Mrs. Hughes stood in the entryway to the sitting room, a cup of tea in her hand. She smiled, her cheeks flushed.

"I think we are — at last — done moving." he said, clapping his hands together.

"Seems that way," she said quietly, taking a few quiet steps into the room. They both had been well-trained in the art of soft footfalls. Of quiet. Of invisibility. It occurred to him as he watched her move from the darkened hallway into the soft light of the room that she — that _they — _no longer had to live their day to day lives according to someone else's rules. Someone else's preferences.

"I see you've made a pot of tea, then." he said, "Very well, though I was hoping that we could christen our new home on this first evening with something a little more —"

She smiled, "Decadent?"

He chuckled, "I have a particularly special bottle for this very occasion."

"How did I know you would?" Mrs. Hughes said, studying her new surroundings carefully, trying to decide which of several chairs and lounges that she could perch on.

"I am a man of tradition if there ever was one." he said, taking a seat next to the fire. "Have you found everything to be agreeable, Mrs. Hughes?"

She sat down across from him, balancing the saucer and teacup on her knee.

"I have, Mr. Carson."

She brought the teacup to her lips, giving him a long glance from over the rim.

"You think you will be happy here?" he said quietly, resting his hands in his lap. Between them the fire crackled warmly — the only sound in the house other than their breaths and the sound of Elsie's sipping.

"I'm certain of it." she said, setting the teacup down with a clink, "Are you pleased? Everything in order?" she smiled knowingly, looking around at how pristine the room was — everything had a place and was in that place. Just as she knew he'd want it to be.

"I am most pleased," he said, "But it seems to me that what makes a home a home is not the fixtures or the furniture — but the person you are making it with."

She blushed, "That's very sweet of you to say, Mr. Carson. I admit I feel quite the same."

He watched her for a moment and then, realizing there was but the width of a small hearth between them, leaned forward just enough to gently take her hand. The fire cast a warm glow on his face as she looked up to meet his gaze.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Hughes." he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

She swallowed back the ache in her throat and blinked a few times in hopes of staunching her tears. Nodding, she took a deep breath and whispered,

"Welcome home, Mr. Carson."


	10. Silver

Stepping into the room with their tea tray, Elsie smiled to herself as she noticed how Mr. Carson appeared to be passing time this evening. They had only been married a few weeks, their cottage still not quite familiar, the _quiet _still not something they knew how to face. Setting the tray down on the small table between them, she settled into the chair — her chair, so it seemed — and sighed pleasantly.

"I bet that's the last thing you ever thought you'd be polishing." she smiled, reaching for the tea pot. "Have a go at mine when you're done."

He smiled, not looking up from his handiwork. "If I know you, Mrs. Hughes—and I think perhaps I do — yours is likely still as pristine as the day it was wrought."

"Aye, but it could be even _more so _if you'd give it a bit of attention." she said as she poured their tea, "You've a knack for making things even more beautiful that they at first appear to be."

At this, he paused, looking up at her. "That's quite a laurel, Mrs. Hughes. I'm not sure I can claim any such alchemical abilities."

"I think perhaps you're more of an alchemist than you realize." she said, "And I don't just mean when it comes to polishing silver or decanting merlot."

He set his wedding band down carefully on the end table and moved to take his teacup, "And what is it that you suppose I've successfully transmuted?"

She bit her lip, stroking the rim of her tea cup. "Me," she said quietly, bashfully averting her eyes. For a moment neither of them spoke, but she heard his teacup clink as he set it back down upon the saucer.

"How so?"

She sighed, "I don't just mean to say by marrying me but — so long as I've known you, Mr. Carson —" she did look up then, she wanted to see him, even if her face was flushed she didn't mind so much — she just wanted to look him in the eye, "—I told you once, many years ago, that you are a man of integrity and honor who rose the tone of Downton by being a part of it. And I meant every word. You're also a very, dearly kind man. A man who is loyal, thoughtful and cares tenderly." she sighed, lifting her tea "And through that, Mr. Carson, you've had an affect on me — knowing you has made me a better person."

He swooned at the way her mouth rolled over the word _person, _like a purr over the 'r'— it made him want to gather her up into his arms, that lilt. The weight of what she had said to him sunk in and he was at a loss for words in reply.

"I hope I've not embarrassed you," she said, her breath hitching. "I don't want you think now that we're married I've gone _soft." _

He smirked, "No, no — you've not embarrassed me in the least. I'm . . .well, I'm rather touched, Mrs. Hughes. And I'm afraid that it may sound as though I am a parrot, but I could quite easily say the same about you."

She smiled over the rim of her teacup, "Go on."

"You have. In so many ways, Mrs. Hughes, you have—" he laughed a bit, "—polished me, or perhaps, ridden me of a certain edginess."

"Ach, so_ you're _the one who marriage'll soften." she said, leaning back into the chair. It was such a joy to not have to always hold herself so upright.

"Not soften as if to weaken," he said, holding up a finger, "rather, a subtle but much welcomed transmutation of substance — more . . ." he searched for the word a moment, sipping his tea, "malleable."

"Malleable," she repeated, setting her teacup down on the tea tray. "Well, Mr. Carson, I can't say that's ever a word I thought I'd hear you use to describe yourself."

"In knowing you, Mrs. Hughes, I have acquired a great deal more self-knowledge."

She grinned knowingly, "_O, wad some Power the giftie gie us / To see oursels as others see us!" _

"I'm not up on my Robert Burns, Mrs. Hughes — which poem is that from?"

"_To a Louse_."

"_To a Louse_. . ." he smiled, "_To see ourselves as others see us."_

He met her gaze and held it a moment, then shook his head, reaching for his wedding band and polishing cloth once again. "You don't see my polishing as a foolish man's unwillingness to relinquish his grip on his old life?"

She shook her head slowly, "No, Mr. Carson. Polishing silver is a good man's failing."

He chuckled at her teasing, then lifted the ring into the firelight, watching it sparkle.

"I think it's shining more than it did the day we were married."

He shook his head, slipping the ring back onto his finger. "Impossible. Nothing could have glimmered more than it did that day."

She smiled at him. He stood and came over to her chair, leaning down to kiss her softly atop her head. Then, he reached down to retrieve another log to toss onto the fire. Next to her, it crackled and burned brightly — but never so bright as the love that had long smoldered, but now was set ablaze within her for him.


	11. Prepared, Knowledge, Denial, Wind

**A/N: I've been sick all week so I thought, since I totally missed like three days, I would just combine them into a single ficlet! Haha. I'm breaking the rules but there are no rules, right? I'll get this up on as soon as I can muster up the strength.**

* * *

She'd never tell him.

And she knew that Anna wouldn't either, would never dare to say a word to anyone. Not even Mr. Bates. Not even on her dying breath. Anna was, maybe even more so than Elsie, a woman who could keep secrets.

Anna had readily blushed, but as the shock of Elsie's inquiry settled over her, there was a sense of pride in her eyes when she nodded in response. To think for so many years that the Housekeeper had provided guidance, compassion and — on so many occasions it seemed, maternal tenderness — now the young Lady's Maid (who would have loved to think herself the Housekeepers protege) could offer something to the woman who had taught her so much.

The conversation, while of few vague words, included a very heavy subtext which made Anna flush even hours later. Thumbing through the book*, flattened down the pages she'd dog-eared (she probably had nothing to be embarrassed about in that, but somehow she didn't want Mrs. Hughes to feel obligated to pay any special attention to what Anna's worries had been at the time of her first-reading).

"I have to run back up to the big house," she murmured, stuffing the book under her coat and laying hand on John's shoulder as she passed him in their sitting room.

"At this hour?" he said, looking up from his tea, "Is something the matter?"

Anna smiled, "Nothing terribly — just, Mrs. Hughes needs me a moment. I won't be long."

John gave her a knowing glance, "Do you think she'll be recommending you as her replacement now that she and Mr. Carson are set to retire?"

"I don't know," Anna said, though of course she did — and he did too. There was a fleeting look of excitement that passed between them. Then, he went back to his tea.

"I'll wait up for you."

"I won't be long."

Trudging up the path to Downton, the book felt heavy against her. She had needed the knowledge it contained so desperately, but she'd never considered that there might be someone who needed it even more. Anna had no mother to teach her what the book contained. No sisters, though she'd heard plenty of sisterly sharing on the subject of men during her years as a young housemaid. None of it was advice she would have felt comfortable taking, however. The old book though — and perhaps it was old, especially now, the world having changed immeasurably in the years since she'd been at Downton — and she hoped that it wouldn't embarrass Mrs. Hughes. Really, there wasn't anything to be embarrassed over. Anna couldn't help but smile to herself — if there were ever two people who enjoyed to find the happiness contained within the worn pages of the book she clutched to her breast, it was the Butler and the Housekeeper.

Mrs. Hughes opened the door to her sitting room and ushered Anna in quickly, looking out into the hallway before she shut the door behind them.

"You've brought it then?"

Anna gave a small laugh, pulling the book out from beneath her coat. She felt as though she were delivering contraband. A right spy, she was.

"It's a bit outdated, I think." Anna said, "But it gives lessons on everything about marriage. Though, I suppose you can skip the chapters on keeping a proper house."

Mrs. Hughes smiled, tucking the book under her arm. "I do know a thing or two about that."

Anna opened her mouth to speak, but gently closed it. She realized that she was prepared to tell Mrs. Hughes to let her know if she had questions about the text — but, of course, that would be far more improper than the simple exchanging of a book.

"I hope you don't mind my saying so, Mrs. Hughes — but I'm very happy for you and Mr. Carson."

Mrs. Hughes reached over and placed her hand gently on Anna's arm. "Thank you, lass." she hugged the book tighter, "Really — thank you."

Anna giggled, "Well, I best be getting back." She made her way to the door but stopped short when Mrs. Hughes quietly said her name.

The housekeeper took a tentative step toward her, wringing her hands. "Do you think me ridiculous?" she asked, her eyes glinting with tears. "You're a young woman, Anna — you've your whole life ahead of you. Books like these, they're written for young women." she bit her lip, "Do you think it's a folly of me to even presume that I need to know what's in these pages?"

Anna smiled gently, taking a step away from the door. "Mrs Hughes, I don't think it ridiculous at all. If there's one thing you taught me — taught all your girls, really— is that the best defense against foolishness is preparation. "Besides, even if you didn't have the book as your guide, I doubt you could ever appear foolish to Mr. Carson."

"Thank you for that," Mrs. Hughes said, "Still, I'd rather not take the chance."

* * *

It was late — Anna had long gone home and Elsie found herself on her second pot of tea. She knew she would be exhausted tomorrow, but she couldn't tear herself away from the book. She had time, plenty of it, she didn't need to devour its contents in a single sitting — yet there was a desperation in her. The need to know, and it would keep her wake regardless. She might as well use these unsleeping hours to study.

_"It is better to give way to nature, no matter how rashly, if diseases are avoided, than to resist her altogether."_

Rather an auspicious beginning, Elsie thinks as she begins reading, chewing her lip with nervous anticipation.

_"Menstruation is necessary to libidinous desires. . _."

Elsie furrowed her brow. It had been many years since she had experienced her monthlies. Did that mean she really was just an old fool for thinking that she would want to — to do this with him? Surely it mattered not how old the couple was. The marriage still should be consummated.

_"Albeit man is the active and woman the passive agent in the consummation of marriage, the latter is supposed to enter more fully into the intensity of its enjoyment. This, however, is a hypothesis which can never be clearly demonstrated."_

Elsie sighed heavily, reaching for her teacup as she turned the page.

_"Men are liable to regret their marriage on the morning after its consummation, and to sigh for the freedom they have lost. But it is only an evanescent feeling, partially attributable to the fact, that, at the commencement the realities of love are usually found to be unequal to the anticipations."_

"Oh for pity's sake," Elsie said, "Destined for failure are we, Mr. Becklard?" She sipped her tea, flipping ahead in the book.

_"It is not well to defer till middle age the period of connubial intercourse; for too tedious a spinstership is as much calculated to hasten the decay of beauty as too early a marriage."_

Elsie scoffed, shutting the book in frustration. What was the point of it? She was clearly too old, as she'd feared she would be, to be thinking about these matters. Past her prime — as was Mr. Carson, if the truth be all told. At their age, the marriage would be at best one of practicality. Companionship.

She tapped her hand on the book's worn cover.

Perhaps that was what he wanted — maybe she'd worried over all this nonsense for naught. Maybe their marriage night would come round and there would be no talk of lovemaking. They hadn't even discussed the cottage bedroom — would they even share a bed? Would he think her crass if she asked?

She felt her throat ache and swallowed back a sob defiantly.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, she avoided his gaze at breakfast, taking her teacup from him with a gentle nod of her head and a gracious half-smile. She did not speak to him and, in fact, excused herself even before the first of the tinkling upstairs bells rang out. In the quiet of her sitting room, she stared at her tidy list of tasks for the day — but found she could not focus on them, her eyes being drawn to the book on the edge of her desk, its presence almost mocking. Angrily, she grabbed it and, with a flourish that shocked her, threw it against the floor. She exhaled sharply, stunned at her display. She was not surprised when, a moment later, there was a brisk knock on her door.

"Mrs. Hughes —" came the familiar voice from the other side of the door. She imagined him, hand hovering above the doorknob, using all his strength not to bust the door in at the sound of her distress. Propriety the only thing between him and barbarism when it came to her, she knew.

"Come in," she said, kicking the book under her desk and out of sight. She stood as Carson appeared, shutting the door behind him without hesitation.

"I heard a crash — is everything alright?"

She pursed her lips, nodding. "I only dropped my day book, Mr. Carson. Nothing to fret about."

He narrowed his eyes at her, "It was rather a loud crash, Mrs. Hughes. I heard it all the way in the pantry — it certainly did not sound unintended."

He took a tentative step toward her, "You seemed troubled this morning. I hope I haven't done something to anger you?"

She sighed, sitting back down at her desk. "No, Mr. Carson. You've not angered me." she shook her head, "What I'm on about is nothing you can help with, I'm afraid to say. I'm sorry to have made you feel in any way responsible."

He sat down in the nearest chair, "How can you be certain I can be of no help unless you share with me what's troubling you?"

She smiled at the kindness in his voice. For a man who was so prone to bellowing, the moments when the timbre of his words were so subtle sent a delightful little chill up scurrying up the back of her neck.

Or — did it? Was she merely ascribing ardor in his presence to the air of a draughty room? She was far too bygone now for lust, so said Mr. Becklard. Perhaps she was mistaken.

"Mrs. Hughes?" he said quietly, "Are you ill? You've flushed rather a lot just now."

She shook her head, standing quickly. "Not at all, Mr. Carson. I am, forgetting myself this morning — I've to begin my day. If you'll excuse me." Walking quickly past the chair in which he sat, she started at the feeling of his hand on her arm.

"Wait," he said, then softer, "Please?"

She looked down at him, straightening her spine — resisting the feeling of weakness in her knees at his touch, the quivering somewhere deep within her. The sensations building so quickly that she found it difficult to qualify them — merely tired, didn't sleep well last night, making me weak. The rustling inside just the shaking of old age, my skin thinner now, perhaps I can feel the blood moving through every inch of me — there's a reason for it and it's not him.

"Are you having second thoughts about my proposal?" he asked, looking up at her intently, "Perhaps now that you've had time to think on it…"

"No," she blurted, pulling her arm out from under his hand, "I haven't had second thoughts and I'm not liable to, Mr. Carson. I do, very much, wish to marry you." she licked her lips contemplatively, then folded her hands in front of her, blinking away tears. "I only hope that you won't be disappointed."

He stood, "Disappointed?"

"I only hope that you have…considered the practical implications of marriage at our age, Mr. Carson. We are not Anna and Mr. Bates."

He softened, "We might well have been."

"What do you mean?"

"By the time you arrived at Downton I had already been here for twenty years. I came on as second footman when I was just nineteen. That was 1875 and you didn't arrive until after I had already become butler. But the minute you arrived I sensed that you would not be Head Housemaid for long. I was determined that you would succeed the Housekeeper upon her retirement because I wanted, very much, to work closely alongside you."

"We were hardly young then, Mr. Carson. And we're not young now."

"Age had nothing to do with it. In much the same way Mr. Bates and Anna found one another companionable not just in service, but in personality, what began as professional admiration became a much deeper appreciation of your qualities." he let his eyes fall aside bashfully, "I suppose I was also at least partially smitten by your good looks."

"Only partially?" she said, laughing in spite of herself.

"Perhaps a quarter more than that — but, what I mean to say Mrs. Hughes, is that I have cared deeply for you for a great many years. I enjoy your company more than that of anyone else." he took a deep breath, "And I hope that after all these years, you feel that those sentiments are true. I hope that, even if they have not been articulated, the words not spoken, you have always felt them."

She tilted her head so that she could catch his eye, "I have, Mr. Carson." she said quietly. "I always have."

He smiled, relieved, and took a step closer to her, placing his hand on her arm and stroking it gently with his thumb. "It has always seemed to me, that those tender feelings I have carried for you, have carried me through these years — unseen but still, strongly felt. Like the wind. Not seen, but felt, and capable of changing one's direction. An unseen impetus for many a storm, even. What I mean to say is — in the same way one only knows that the wind is there because of how it moves the trees, I hope that you have always known the …the love that I have for you is there because of how it has carried us."

She nodded, her tears choking her words. He reached up and gently wiped a tear from her cheek.

"Whatever it is that has you so troubled…I only ask that you remember that if you are considering keeping it from me." he said quietly. She nodded and reached her hand up to pet his lovingly.

"Do you have a moment?" she asked, sniffling, "I've got something I'd like you to read."

* * *

*Becklard's Physiology was like the sex guide for the ages and reading through it has been simultaneously the most entertaining and depressing Valentine's Day I've ever had. * Did I just quote _A Walk To Remember_ dear God I am so sorry that is too cheesy but it _is _Valentine's Day. 


	12. Order

**A/N: I don't even know how this happened omg. I shouldn't have watched PL in _Goldeneye. NSFW, _but delightfully so I hope.**

* * *

He stepped into their bedroom half expecting her to be asleep already. When he saw her sitting in the middle of the bed in nothing but her shift — her hair cascading down her back, he nearly tripped through the doorway.

"Come here," she growled, crooking her finger at him. He blinked, his feet suddenly stuck to the floor. She leaned toward him, her hands pressing into the bed as she went on all-fours, her breasts falling forward. "I said _come here, _Mr. Carson. Shut that door behind you."

_Mr. Carson? _He thought. It had been quite some time since she'd called him that. He obliged, awkwardly stepping back to shut the door to their bedroom and then crossing the room with a bit of a uncertain hop in his step.

"Have a seat, please." she said, straightening up. He did, his mouth agape. She sat back on her haunches, one arm reaching toward him, a finger gently pushing his chin up. "And shut your mouth, we're not catching flies."

He bit his lip to keep from laughing. He still wasn't entirely sure what she was on about, but he wasn't feeling particularly anxious to stop it.

"Take off your clothes, Mr. Carson." she said.

He reached up quickly to behind unbuttoning his shirt. He faltered, his hands shaking a bit. She pursed her lips and shook her hair over her shoulder.

When he'd finally undressed entirely, save for one sock which remained on in his haste to move toward her. As soon as his fingers touched her skin, he felt the pulse of his desire flourish.

She rose up on her knees, away from him. "No," she said, one long agonizing syllable. "You've to wait."

He groaned.

She clucked her tongue, "Patience, Mr. Carson."

With a practiced motion, she lifted the shift over her head. Tossing it onto the floor, she turned back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Now then, Mr. Carson." she said, "If you would please be so kind as to kiss me here —" she said, running a finger along her collarbone. He lunged forward, hungrily, but she stopped him as he began to kiss the length of her neck.

"Ah ah," she chastised, "Only where I say."

He gripped her waist, "This is torture."

She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back over her shoulder. Then, lifted a finger behind her earlobe. "Here, please."

He leaned in, kissing her gently behind the ear — using all the resolve he could muster not to suck her earlobe between his lips and nibble it. The scent of her hair against him made him moan, his fingers tapping the air wildly, yearning for her.

"Here," she breathed, running her finger the length of her neck. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her up into his lap as he kissed her long, elegant neck, lingering just under her jaw.

"Now —" she said, her breath quickening, "Here, please."

He looked up and watched as she pressed her fingertip against her lower lip.

Taking her face in his hands, he pressed his mouth against hers hard. She allowed him to push her back down against the bed, but bucked against him when his hands began to wander down her thigh.

"Put your hands on the bed," she breathed. "Only let your lips touch me."

"Good God woman," he said, pressing his face into the pillow next to them. She laughed, reaching over and pulling him back to her, pressing his face into her chest.

"_Only _your lips, Mr. Carson." she purred, pushing his head down the length of her torso. "_That's an order_."


End file.
